It's been a crazy week in Pantherland. Work crap, more bullying issues for my son, more work crap, and my beloved greyhound is in the hospital. I've got lots of stuff to write about, and will probably have a bit of time to do it this weekend, but in the meantime...a holiday-season rerun from last year.
I was fourteen years old on New Year's Eve, 1969. Trudging through 2 feet of snow, off I went to a party several blocks away in our little Brooklyn neighborhood. When I arrived, someone handed me a glass... a big glass ... of very strong smelling brown stuff that I was pretty sure was meant to get me in the holiday spirit. It turned out to be Southern Comfort. You know, the 100 proof stuff that doubles as paint remover? When something tastes that bad the only thing to do is chug it and wait for the party to begin.
The next hour or so, as I recall, involved a lot of vomiting in the snow. By 10:30 someone hauled me back home, deposited me on the doorstep, rang the doorbell and took off. (My father's reputation was the stuff of legend.) However, in what was just one of several scratch-your-head inconsistencies in the parenting style of Marge and Sal, I was not beaten within an inch of my life. Instead, my mother flopped me onto my bed and attempted to remove my knee-high boots. She yanked them off and then discovered that in order to keep my pants inside the boots I had wrapped about a million rubber bands around each leg. I don't remember much from that night, but I do remember her saying "Oh you dirty dog!" and running for a pair of scissors to clip the rubber bands.
She dragged me into the bathroom, propped my head on the toilet, and then.... they got dressed and went off to a New Year's Eve party themselves. Can you imagine? "Ok dear, hope you don't choke on your own vomit! Happy New Year!"
How many people can say they QUIT drinking at 14?